


Looking At You

by tekowrites



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Light Bondage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 02:51:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13988922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tekowrites/pseuds/tekowrites
Summary: Prompt by GinAkuma:"Inspired by the song 'This is what you came for' Rihanna. What would happen if Clark was down from something in his life and goes to a bar. He sees a beautiful man -Bruce- who everyone is all over. But Bruce keeps rejecting everyone, but glances his way every once in a while. Then goes over to Clark and says, 'so how many guys do I have to reject for you to come over?' Clark is shell-shocked, because, why would someone so pretty want him?"AU where they don't know each other's alter ego.





	Looking At You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GinAkuma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GinAkuma/gifts).



> Hello! No Beta, sorry. First time writing superbat. Please forgive any awkwardness. Gift for my friend GinAkuma. \o/

Sometimes, it seemed as if the world wouldn’t ever stop spinning. That every moment was filled with a dozen, no, a million more moments, happening across the world in mere blinks of an eye.

And some days were so excruciatingly empty, so clearly devoid of wrongs, that Clark had to go out of his way to fish for trouble, for purpose in a world that gave him days of unthinkable joy, and days of absolute desolation.

Days like these he wondered what cosmic powers were at play. Why the universe sometimes decides to take a day off. He wondered if it was a trait of humanity and he was missing out on the big joke. So, he looked for purpose, looked for the one clear second where his entire existence made sense.

Sitting at the bar watching a re-run of a basketball game, the feeling intensified. For one, there was an overwhelming tension, rising around him. The place wasn’t empty, but it was clear no one was there for the riveting game on screen. It was almost an afterthought. And if thoughts were caresses, then someone was getting violently assaulted somewhere behind him.

He turned to look to assess the situation, and there was a moment where it caught in his throat, the touch of a thought. Features that seem chiseled from marble eyed him with a raised brow. The man was surrounded by people, but his profile left no question that he was barely acknowledging their presence. Clark turned again, and his own thoughts took an unexpected turn.

The bar clientele had seemed diverse at first, but the number of men outnumbered the women. The prickling sensation of being watched, of being a prey, had burst into being the moment their eyes had locked together. He was sure now, that he was being watched. It came unexpectedly, and he wondered how he could have missed that intense gaze.

He’d gone looking for trouble, and he’d found it. It was just, _not_ exactly what he’d had in mind.

Ice clinked in his glass, breaking the spell, and watering his drink down. He chanced another look, and this time, there was an unmistakable lift to the mouth on his admirer’s face. He responded by turning his head back to the bar, sound-speed. For the first time in forever, it almost gave him whiplash. Which was ridiculous, as that man had seen him look, he had been deliberate in making sure it was clear that he had.

_He_ was being ridiculous.

He chastised himself. One thing he was never accused of, was looking especially dashing as Clark Kent. Not with those bottle bottom glasses, the unruly cowlick fringe, or the sometimes less than fashionable choice of dress. Flying -or in his case, _not flying_ \- under the radar, meant he had to make some sacrifices.

Being so obviously cruised in his attempted unflattering persona was fresh. It made him giddy.

He was losing his goddam _mind_.

He took another peek just to confirm. Everything in the man’s stance and body language said relaxed, confident, arrogant. Everything in his heated gaze screamed danger and impatience. Another body shuffled towards the stranger and was met with a gesture that was an obvious send off. He grinned at that, catching a tooth on his bottom lip. The novelty of the entire situation thrilled and surprised him. He made a deliberate, slow turn of his head, back to his glass of floating ice, beverage now unrecognizable, and spread his legs on either side of the comfortable barstool. His wider stance left barely any room for anyone to sit comfortably near him, but in the interest of not castrating, or completely exposing himself, he had to relieve a little pressure.

Heat suffused his body when a palm rested on his thigh, digging into fabric that Clark was surprised didn’t just disintegrate. The touch burned, all the more because the arm attached to it, with its bulging, corded muscles, was showing strain.

All his instincts told him to confront the man, to shove the claiming hand away. But his body was on the verge of pushing into the touch just that much further and seeing where that hand could stray. He compromised with the smallest shuffle, making room for the stranger, and feigning any more interest. As best he could with the palm practically branding its shape on his leg.

“So,”

He found his voice, a little raspy from his silent spell, enough to acknowledge the man with a, “so?”

“So, how many guys do I have to reject, for you to come over?”

And if the fingers dug a little harder, catching on the seams of his pants, they had nothing on the almost harsh exclamation. Like Clark was being punished for acting like a tease. Amusement sparked, and he had to take a moment, albeit a breathless one, to get over the uncanny feeling that he knew this man. This ruggedly handsome stranger, whose slightly pinched features and sharp chin were the only things that made gazing at him, not seem entirely like gazing into a mirror

But how far could he push it?

“You seemed to be having fun. As a good sport, I didn’t want to intrude.” And he hadn’t been sure he’d wanted to encourage the man along.

He could tell the exact moment the man lost a bit of his interest. His eyes cooled down, and his fingers relaxed just a fraction. But he’d been doing the chasing reporter act for far too long, and Clack smiled, his just that side of teasing-smile he usually bestowed on the ladies at work, punched up with unexpected heat in his eyes. “But I was definitely keeping score.”

And like magic, or attraction, -but probably just lust, right?- their faces grew closer, the hand slipped lower, and the overwhelming musk of smoke and sandalwood permeated the air around him.

“Bruce.” The hand was now in front of him, its loss sent a chill on once warmed skin. He blinked, not expecting the man to be so candid, or the smile that was full of teasing promise. And for the first time, the full weight of the situation hung heavily on his shoulders. What if this was just a joke?

He stood up, fully intending to leave, when Bruce’s eyes turned to slits. It wasn’t that he hadn’t caught the movement, but he hadn’t expected it. He found himself straddling a muscled thigh, amazed it could carry his weight so easily. The hand that had been tormenting him just moments ago, was now holding onto his belt.

And there it was again, that slight edge of danger that should have had him on his feet again, instead of gathering a curious audience.

“I deserve a name back, don’t you think?”

It took a moment for realization to down, that this was exactly the kind of game they would be playing this evening. He was possessed by a manic spell when he wrapped his hand over the one pulling his belt, and rocking his entire body forward, once, over the thick thigh between his legs.

“Clark.”

***

It didn’t surprise him at all, when the car pulled up and someone came out to usher them inside, nor did the hotel keycard they picked up. What surprised him, was the knowledge that he was slightly taller, slightly stockier than Bruce.

Bruce’s entire demeaner shifted the minute the bar was behind them, turning pleasant and charming at times, authoritative and entitled at others. Every mask he wore as the night progressed, was one that Clark itched to reveal, to point out, to peel back and watch the husk left behind.

There was no sign of a weakness, and all too late, he found that his every thought was about the man leading him to a room with dimmed lights, and an all too telling bed dominating the space.

Rational thought had escaped him once again.

He couldn’t let Bruce have the upper hand all the time, so he removed his glasses, and placed them on the nearest table. He could see the annoyance on Bruce’s face, and his own eyes narrowed. He had no problem exercising his own power games now that they were no longer in public.

He moved closer, and let the back of his hand trail down the other man’s shirt. He didn’t watch Bruce’s eyes as they tracked the movements of his fingers, eyeing instead the fashionably pulled-up sleeves, the lack of accessories, save for a watch that, as plain as it was, clearly cost a small fortune. The cut of pants that were clearly tailored to fit. His hand bumped against the buckle, and he didn’t think twice before plunging two of his fingers inside. He teased around the waist of the pants, in absolutely no hurry. The fact that he never once felt a second layer of fabric, only made him push his fingers in further, searching while biting a moan back.

Bruce’s fingers under his chin, forced his eyes up to look.

“Who’s running this show?”

Clark backed away, hands held in the air. He was sure he hadn’t overstepped, but it was clear Bruce’s own dominating side had come out to play.

“Did I need permission to touch?”

Bruce snorted, and it shaved years off his face. “Point taken.”

That didn’t stop him from grabbing Clark’s face and swiping a finger across his lips, before coaxing them open with his own.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever had such a blood curdling kiss, but Clark had no intention of wasting his time thinking about it. Their mouths met and eased apart, each drinking in the air, their tongues meeting and retreating into pockets of hidden pleasure. The nip to his lip, he answered with one of his own, kissing and tugging Bruce’s upper lip. They mashed together and Clark held onto the very edge, waiting for the precise moment Bruce would lose his breath, to take control again. His lips tingled, and he listened to Bruce’s harsh breathing, lungs pulling in air like life and shuddering against him.

Bruce’s fingers found purchase in his hair, tracing his ears and leaning against him, pining his full weight on the man.

They tumbled towards the bed, Clark landing first, holding onto a bit of air so as not to wreck the bed before they even started. Bruce started unbuttoning his shirt, laughing when he saw the undershirt, before pulling it off.

“You’re so proper that it makes me feel dirty.”

“Not wearing underwear would make anyone feel that way.” His eyebrows were raised, daring Bruce to contradict him.

“Ruins a man’s authority, having an outline show.”

The laugh was there, and Clark knew he could take it either way. He chose to fake indignation and offense, “is that your rich boy advice to the plebeian?”

Before Bruce could respond though, Clark had flipped them, pinning Bruce to the bed. He lowered his face, catching the sight of Bruce’s ear, and bending closer to nibble. “It just makes you that much more vulnerable mister young master.”

He kissed his way back to Bruce’s mouth, sliding hands to link with Bruce’s. They moved together, sliding and gliding bumps back and forth and gasping as angles were changed and the intensity between them built. Bruce’s hands slipped away to grab onto Clark’s torso, to bring him closer, placing a hand between them both as the need to let go grew even stronger. Clark barely spared a thought to his pitiful suit pants, when the world shifted upside down.

When it became apparent that Bruce had flipped their positions again, he grinned at the man, moved to pull him down again to resume their frottage. The fact that his hand wasn’t moving as summoned was only slightly confusing, until he noticed that Bruce’s belt was gone, and the man was looking like that cat that ate the cream.

“Don’t call me that again.”

“Geez, hate to see what you do to people who _really_ offend you.”

Bruce smiled, a thin, enigmatic smile. It was so clear at that moment that Clark wasn’t the only one carrying around a secret. He wasn’t sure which was hotter, that he felt he could -to a degree- trust this man, or that his instincts absolutely didn’t. He slacked his arms, felt the pinch of the belt lessen, and made sure that no matter what, he could still get himself out of the situation, if needed.

His head now lowered, Bruce made an explorational trail with his tongue, matting the hair leading right to his cock, stopping to lick just the outline underscored by Clark’s pants.

Clark made sure to flex what muscles he could, enticing Bruce into putting his hands to use, shifting his knees on either side of the man to remind him of their unfinished business.

He hissed when his nipple was bitten instead, teeth working it to a point. He tried to buck Bruce off, to signal he’d had enough on that particular side but the constant tug of the belt around his wrists was a reminder of the need to be restrained in the use of his power. It was unlucky that Bruce didn’t have to do the same as well. A nip called up his attention again, and he groaned when Bruce applied his tongue and soothed the tortured pec.

He was already worked up, and the constant stimulation to parts of his body he hadn’t realized could respond _that_ way, wasn’t helping him concentrate on making their play last. Perhaps a little strength was required. When a particularly sensitive spot on his side was racked with nails, he made use of his own reaction, and wrapped his legs around Bruce’s waist, dragging the body against him. If he used a little more force than necessary? The bastard deserved it for keeping him floating on the edge with no sign of relief.

“Sensitive much?”

“Sadistic much? Lose the pants. Heck, lose any of your clothes.”

The over the top, fake falsetto whine of “but I hate to lose,” made him roll his eyes. It was slightly alarming how he could pick up on the fact there was too much truth even in the sarcastic reply. He tightened his legs again around the man and could hear the grunt.

“Are you trying to squeeze me into submission?”

Clark grinned, the insinuating _‘is it working?_ ’ unsaid, but all too clear on his face. Whether out of pity, or his own well-masked impatience, Bruce pushed away from his hold, and dealt deftly with his own shirt buttons.

There was a heavy moment of anticipation as the shirt rippled loose then off, and the sound that almost escaped him broke that moment. Scars. A multitude of scars the likes of which he’d rarely seen. Beautiful though, they were as absolutely beautiful as they were intriguing. One look at Bruce though, and he knew the topic was off limits. He was half sure that with enough training, Bruce would probably be able to shoot lasers out of his eyes with a glare. Still, lasers or not, the effect was the same.

Their urgency picked up once Bruce had divested them both of their clothes. No comments were made about underwear or socks or shoes, nothing about scars or defined bodies. There was nothing between them now except for the maddening will to touch, to feel and rub against every patch of exposed skin.

He’d dropped his legs to allow Bruce to move, and now his vulnerable position was maximized when Bruce’s head dropped between his legs.

He trembled, feeling the scrap of teeth tease the path of fingers that had been there once, what seemed like hours ago. And now they were fulfilling a promise made in the bar. Heat swallowed him up and he arched, trying to draw more of the wet warmth around him, to pound and wreck Bruce’s throat. He tugged the belt and cursed. Liquid seeped, coating his crack and he shivered, unable to do anything to erase or ease the sensation.

The nudge of a blunt, thick finger was a welcome distraction from the inevitable release, especially as a tongue traced the underside of his cock.

The unmistakable sound of slick skin, meeting skin as fingers coaxed his body to readiness, filled the air. When something considerably hotter pushed its way inside, every other sound was gone, save for the loud, harsh breathing filling his mind and ears. The sharp feeling of pain, the rock-solid thighs pushing him back, and fingers branding him, pining his center to the bed were mere thoughts as his spine curved to meet the body above his. To collide, scrape and touch and sooth the sudden insatiable burn of sensation, of the scrapping of his sensitive walls. His muscles quivered, turning to liquid as the Bruce finally, finally rubbed against his bundle of nerves.

The bed creaked alarmingly, the leather made sounds of distress around his wrists, and keeping his strength a secret was an afterthought. The movements were calculated and entirely too precise in their directive to turn him into an insane, incoherent mess. He was primed to go off, the slightest wind and his whole world would burst into fireworks, when something closed, vice like around his base.

“Bastard.”

Bruce grinned, his teeth on full display, but the teasing disarmed him, when the back of a hand caressed down his face. He wasn’t sure how this man could be so cruelly cold, and warmly kind at the same time. The hand continued its descent down his body, lightly brushing his already pointed nubs, awakening sensations as it went. His orgasm was barely controlled, and the need to release began to overwhelm him, particularly because they’d gone back to drawn-out teasing and feathery, shiver-inducing touches that were maddening.

He pulled against his restraints, feet scrabbling against the sheets, and finding no purchase. Trying to force a rhythm that guaranteed more sensation. Bruce noticed and dragged his legs further up, ankles to his shoulders and pushed until he was seated so deep Clark felt the tightness reach his chest.

“Fu..!”

He pushed against him, again and again, with unrestrained force, feeling muscles contract and strain. The belt ripped. It was a blessing and a curse, but the body above him hadn’t stopped moving in the same punishing speed, still deliberately avoiding his prostate. He couldn’t feel the burn anymore, blurred between the sweet, pleasurable drag and the tight pumping of his cock in expert hands.

His arms reached and crushed Bruce’s body to his, melding their lips, breathing in the gasps, moaning and encouraging. When Bruce stilled for a brief second, hair matted with sweat, head arched back, Clark reached to claim a spot on his neck, to add his own kind of scar.

***

Somehow, he knew that if he slept for more than a couple of hours, he’d find Bruce gone. And if they were still keeping score? Clark was at a loss. He picked up his undershirt from the pile on the floor, and speed changed Bruce into it.

It was funny how he felt like he knew so much about the man in one single night. He was just about to reach out and ruffle the man’s already messy hair, when he picked up on the sound of distress outside their hotel room. He didn’t think twice before changing and running off to help. The fact that his hand was still clenched was unimportant.


End file.
